


When the Roses Bloom Again

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: CW: Suicide attempt (alluded), F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Tumblr Jopper Big Bang 2019 entry.Edited by @andcontemplation (FreeWinona) tumblrImage by @Periwinkleeeyore tumblrTitle is based on a song written by Woody Guthrie. Lyrics show up later in the fic. Billy Bragg and Wilco do a fantastic cover it on their Mermaid Avenue vol. III album!Summary: Murray had been incorrect in his assumption that Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper had never gotten to know each other in the biblical sense. They had - in fact - been together exactly three times. Once in high school, once shortly after his return to Hawkins, and once right under Murray's roof. It was the final time that was to have lasting consequences for the both of them.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers & Jim "Chief" Hopper, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 15
Kudos: 76
Collections: Jopper Big Bang 2019





	When the Roses Bloom Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andcontemplation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andcontemplation/gifts).



**When the Roses Bloom Again**

Written by: starmaammke

Edited by: andcontemplation (FreeWinona)

For Jopper Big Bang 2019

CW: Suicide attempt, self harm

Summary: Murray had been incorrect in his assumption that Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper had never gotten to know each other in the biblical sense. They had - in fact - been together exactly three times. Once in high school, once shortly after his return to Hawkins, and once right under Murray's roof. It was the final time that was to have lasting consequences for the both of them.

Image by: @Periwinkleeeyore (tumblr)

**July 4th, 1985**

“They have not had sex?” Alexei inquired in his Mother Tongue, his soft, kind voice humming with amusement. 

“No,” Murray confirmed, his tone bordering on hysterical amusement. They pair fairly shrieked with laughter as Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper glowered with astonished indignation in the front seat. They may not have understood the exact words, but the meaning was clear. 

Murray had been incorrect in his assumption that Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper had never gotten to know each other in the biblical sense. They had - in fact - been together exactly three times. Once right before high school graduation, once shortly after his return to Hawkins, and once right under Murray's roof, just the night before. 

The latter was not changing the fact that the one would’ve cheerfully murdered the other, until Murray launched into his lengthy, presumptuous diatribe about the state of their relationship - after that, the focus of their barely concealed ire turned on the pair in the backseat. 

The not-so-gentle ribbing from Murray put a pall of silence over the car, and after a spell, Joyce felt her anger and mortification cool, dissolve and turn to something that felt more like self-reflection. Try as she did to NOT do the thing, she felt herself sneaking little hopeful glances at Jim, whose face betrayed nothing more than deep irritation. It was more or less what he had given her since earlier in the day, after they fought over her phone call to the “Philadelphia Public Library”; annoyance, impatience, and sharp words. The night before had been a peaceful oasis in the midst of this new, taciturn side of him. She thought for a moment that maybe she had dreamt it up. 

As they neared Hawkins, soft snores from the backseat indicated that she and Jim maybe had a quiet, undisturbed moment. She struggled with what to say, with so little time. They had to talk about it - what if they didn’t make it through the night? What could be said? Every time she opened her mouth to speak, she caught the hard, focused look in his eyes and closed it again. 

“They’re asleep.”

“What?” His inquiry was sharp, and it made something almost loving inside her wither and die. 

“Nothing.”

She heard him inhale sharply, and exhale shakily. 

“I’m sorry, Joyce.” His tone was soft, and contrite. 

“It’s okay.” She frowned as he pulled over to the shoulder of the road, gravel crunching softly beneath the wheels. Her cheeks began to burn as her thoughts flew to Murray’s suggestion that they pull over and fuck like rabbits. Her eyes widened as they fixed on his face and waited.

“No, it’s not.” He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. “Goddamn it. It’s not okay. I don’t like this person.”

“Who? Murray?”

“Me! I don’t like me. I don’t like how I’ve been with you,” he ground out. There was an initial snappishness to his response, that evened out and softened towards the end. He turned to her, and she noted a bit of a shine to his eyes, noticeable even in the semi-darkness. His expression was tortured. 

“Hop, it’s been a long week - fuck, it’s been a long few years - “

“You don’t deserve this. Any of this… and I’m sorry. I don’t want to be another Lonnie.”

Joyce bit her bottom lip and shot him a shy, light smile. She desperately wanted to change the mood. Perhaps because it rarely occurred throughout the course of her life, but apologies always made her deeply uncomfortable when directed towards her. Maybe it was the open vulnerability, and sincere humbleness that had to come with true apologies - and how plainly all of these things were being projected on Jim’s face in that exact moment - but Joyce had to bite down on the sudden, visceral urge to immediately flee.

“Joyce?”

Oh. The expectation was that she had to say something in response. 

“What about last night?”

Jim blinked hard, before an almost goofy grin played across his usually stern features. The turnabout made the knot in her stomach immediately unclench, and she let out a breathless chuckle that he returned in kind. 

“Last night was--”

“Why’ve we stopped?” Murray mumbled blearily from the backseat. “Should I go back to sleep… do you need privacy?”

“Shut up, Murray,” Jim replied, but without any real venom. I thought one of the lights were out… wake up Smirnoff, would ya? We’re nearly there.” He gave Joyce a wink before putting the car in drive once more. 

Joyce grinned back, her thoughts turning to Enzo’s, her night with Jim, the promise of nights to come, and the glowing warmth in her thighs and tummy. She reached over and squeezed his knee, her hand twitching slightly when he covered it with his own, his thumb caressing the pronounced bump of her wrist. 

__________

**July 3rd, 1985**

“All three of you reek,” Murray complained as he walked into his living area, arms laden with what appeared to be bathrobes. Jim’s suspicions were confirmed when one - deep green and threadbare - was thrown directly at his face. Murray did the same to Alexei - throwing him an orange corduroy monstrosity, and repeating his statement in Russian - and to Joyce, though he gently handed - rather than threw - the yellow floral to her with a sort of wary reverence. 

“You can take turns using the shower in the bathroom, and use the washer and dryer on your clothes. Don’t say I wasn’t a magnanimous host.” He translated to Alexei, who beamed at the news, and replied with what sounded like effusive thanks.

“Thank you, Murray,” Joyce spoke up, before shooting Jim a chastising glance. 

“Thanks,” Jim echoed after Joyce had to clear her throat. 

“I'm going to bed. You two are welcome to conserve water and save me money.” Murray saluted the disgusted pair and disappeared down the back hallway.

“I'm not showering with you, and I'm going first.” Joyce announced, using Jim's shoulder as an anchor to launch herself to her feet so she could hurry to the bathroom. 

“Break my heart…” Jim's voice oozed with weary sarcasm. 

Joyce found herself pleasantly surprised by the water pressure as she scrubbed the sweat and grime from her body. She mused that Murray, strange little man that he was, must have had an occasional lady caller; there were two mostly empty bottles of green apple Suave, and a tiny pink razor nestled in the faded white steel caddy… though upon closer inspection, the bottles left mildew rings on the metal, and the blades on the razor were blood-red with rust. 

“Poor weirdo,” she sighed, and she meant it. Despite their rough beginnings, she couldn't help but feel a kinship - well, understanding - towards Murray. She knew what it was like to scream truth into the void only to hear laughter echoed back, and she definitely knew loneliness and regret.

She padded, wordlessly, from the bathroom and into the spare bedroom Murray had designated for her, shutting the door behind her. It was small, clean, and blessedly air-conditioned. She crawled into bed, and flopped onto her back. Sleep would be hard to come by, near impossible due to the rapidfire nature of her racing thoughts, but she knew, instinctively, that tomorrow would require every bit of energy she possessed.

Joyce looked around for something to focus her attention. There was a Beatrice Small hardcover on the nightstand, the cover art promising a lurid, exotic adventure with heaving bosoms and rippling muscles. Joyce's cheeks burned with a fierce blush as she glanced around, snatched the book, and opened to the middle.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Jim bit back a moan as a blast of water from the showerhead hit his sore and sweat-caked body. It was divinity incarnate, and almost as sweet as the sight of the back of Joyce's long, elegant neck when she had exited the bathroom. 

He hadn't meant to stare. Hadn't meant to forget he was still a little furious with her as his eyes followed her slight form to the spare bedroom, but her thick, damp auburn hair had been gathered up so haphazardly atop her head that it was poetry. He wanted to kiss the curling tendrils at her nape - wanted to undo the chaotic mass and spread it across a pillow before pressing her…

Fuck. He was hard.

This was a fairly new development for Jim. Indeed, he had realized for quite some time that his regard for Joyce had evolved into something far more than friendly, but apart from the constant ache that existed in his heart when she was gone, and the soothing softness that overcame it when she wasn't - the romanticism he entertained had been downright chaste. Perhaps it was because his bedroom door was a curtain, or the fact that his former habits had fallen by the wayside since taking in El, but he hadn't experienced this sort of visceral reaction to Joyce since that night, years ago, when divorcing Lonnie was still on her ‘Maybe’ list.

But, oh, was he ever feeling it now. He bit back a moan when he gave his aching length an experimental stroke. He thought about her soft eyes, how gentle and sweet they could seem in one moment, when in the next they could burn, flashing with amber in the right light. His breath caught in his throat as he realized angry, acerbic Joyce was most definitely a turn on - and he was horrifically backed up. He came in under a minute, shuddering and groaning out her name as his cock throbbed and then gradually softened in his hand. When it was done, he finished rinsing the suds from his body, turned off the water, stepped out, and donned Murray's hideous robe.

Alexei nodded shyly as they passed each other in the hallway. Jim jerked his chin tersely and made his way to the couch. 

“Hey Joyce?” 

There was a suspiciously long pause. Joyce's response was breathless, with a definite edge of irritation, as she responded from the guest room. 

“Yes?”

“You rest up. Leave the laundry until tomorrow.”

Joyce audibly snorted. “Who said I had to do all of the laundry? I’m only going to wash my clothes.” She emerged, her arms crossed over her chest, cheeks suspiciously pink. 

Jim shrugged, his face neutral. He wasn’t in the mood for another battle royale. “Seems silly to waste all that water on three seperate loads. I’ll do the laundry if you like, I just didn’t think you’d want me handling your unmentionables.”

Joyce’s breath came in sharp. “I…” she couldn’t finish. Her mind was fixed on the unbidden image of Jim’s large hand caressing her thigh, and his thumb slipping beneath the front of her panties to dip into the…

“Joyce?”

“You’re right. I’ll do the laundry. No point in getting you all hot and bothered at the sight of my Maidenforms.”

Jim cracked a grin that reached his eyes, giving them a playful twinkle. “What about the sight of my boxers?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I have two boys, I know what skidmarks look like.”

Jim doubled over with a bark of laughter. Her crude little jab sliced through the heavy tension, and the sound of her joining him in mirth, hers low and tentative, eased the knot that had been situated in his gut since she stood him up. 

“Are you going to sleep on that little couch?” Joyce inquired, once her giggles subsided. She still had a wry little smile, quirking one corner of her mouth, and Jim was struck by how much he absolutely loved her.

“Naw, I’m going to give it to Smirnoff. I’m taking a chair.”

Joyce shook her head. “Okay. Well, the bed is big. Two people could sleep pretty comfortably on it and-”

“You want me to sleep with you?” Jim hadn’t meant for his query to come out in such a strange, strangled pitch, and he immediately regretted his wording. 

“It’s big, is all.”

“So am I.”

“What?” Joyce squeaked. She covered her mouth with her hand when Murray’s voice launched a sleepy complaint from down the hall. Jim’s complexion darkened even further, as he began to stutter out an explanation.

“Oh - uh - the bed might not be as big as you think, is what I meant-”

“Sleep where you want!” Joyce barked, suddenly. She disappeared into her room and shut the door behind her. 

Jim sighed, marvelling at how he managed to bungle a night cuddled up to the woman of his dreams. The conversation had been going so well until he had started to actually listen to the words coming out of his mouth. Diane would’ve called that a Freudian slip, his father would’ve called it being a dumb fucker. He walked over to the chair, and pulled the well-worn afghan over his legs with a grumble. 

Alexei walked out of the bathroom in his robe, a towel wrapped around his head and an amiable smile on his lips. He chirped out what sounded like what could possibly be a “Good night” before crawling onto the sofa and wrapping himself in blankets. The bastard seemed revitalized, and Jim briefly thought about the water pressure in the USSR for some reason. 

Alexei snored, Murray snored, and between the cacophony of wheezy rumbles from one, and revving log splitter motors from the other, Jim was hyper-aware of every lump in the armchair. It certainly wasn’t his prized Laz-E-Boy - and was Joyce crying? 

Jim stood and headed towards Joyce’s bedroom with a soft, cautious stride. What would he do if she were crying? Things had been so explosive between the two of them that he doubted he would be of any comfort. 

“Joyce?” He whispered, as he approached the door. He heard the bed springs creak, but no other sign that she had heard him. Her whimper was soft. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes trained on the floor. 

“Listen, I’m sorry that I’ve been - oh shit!” Jim swore and stumbled backwards the minute he lifted his eyes towards the bed, his spine hitting the open door. He cursed, turned his back to Joyce and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Shut the door!” Joyce hissed as she closed her robe and pulled the covers up to her chest. She was flush from her toes to her scalp for two reasons; one was causing an unbearable, unfinished ache between her thighs, and the other was her unwitting witness. Jim shoved at the door, and stood with his forehead against the cheap wood, his eyes still closed. He was muttering an apology over and over. 

“Uh- well, obviously you’re still here so…” Joyce couldn’t finish her statement, she buried her face in her hands in shame. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Jim’s voice was soft, and slightly muffled. 

Joyce sucked in a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. “No.”

“No?”

“No. Come here, Hopper.” 

Jim turned slowly, his eyes wide. His eyebrows nearly shot to his scalp when he took in the sight of Joyce, devoid of covers, robe open once more to reveal the valley between her breasts and an irresistible expanse of creamy flesh. Her knees were bent and slightly parted, her hair spread against the pillow. He spied the open novel on her nightstand, and gulped.

“Looking for a bit of the real thing?” He joked in a weak voice. He stayed near the door, preparing to flee if it all turned into a mean little joke at his expense.

“I’m trying to be seductive. I’m looking to get- just come here if you want to, okay? I am feeling very vulnerable right now, so if I’m being silly just-”

He was on her in a flash, pulling her atop him as he cupped her face, nudged her lips open with his own, and plundered her mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. His fingers tangled in her hair, pushing it away from her face as his tongue licked into her mouth, teasing at the roof and eliciting a deliciously sweet moan. His heart hammered in this chest, hitting a rapid beat that seems to always come when one gets exactly what they want. She was all he had ever wanted for God knows how long, and given his behavior in the past few days, he absolutely did not deserve this moment - not the soft press of her lips, or the silken weight of her breasts against his palms as his thumbs circled and teased at her blush-colored nipples. 

But he wasn’t prepared to look the gift horse in the mouth, as it were. If she changed her mind, he swore he’d stop, even as her thigh brushed against his cock, which was painfully erect. If the night was going the way he truly prayed it was, Jim thanked the stars above that he had rubbed one off in the shower - clearing the pipes, as it were, meant that he wouldn’t embarrass himself, and disappoint her (any more than he already had in the past few days) by finishing early. 

“Stop me, if you want me to stop,” he moaned against the shell of her ear, and one hand drifted down her belly, the other threaded in her hair. She turned her head and captured his mouth in a hungry, bruising kiss - her small white teeth nipping at his bottom lip, as his fingers brushed against her mound. He swallowed her sharp whimper, as his forefinger dipped between her folds and found her dripping with want. 

“Shhh… if we wake the house, Murray will never let us live this down” he purred, lowly. “You gotta be quiet, baby.” His thumb circled her clitoris, as he pressed two fingers deep inside of her. She clamped down, and his vision blurred as his heart raced at how tight, and perfect she was. Joyce’s back arched and she choked out a quiet cry. The bedsprings squeaked as she fell back against the mattress, and continued to do so as her hips rose and fell with his ministrations. 

“Jim, I--” Joyce was cut off as Jim tugged at her hips, and maneuvered her until he was off the bed and kneeling, her knees were thrown over his shoulder. He gave her a mischievous grin from his place between her thighs before licking into her with a satisfied groan. She was honey-sweet and generously slick beneath the flat of his tongue. Her stifled cries were music, and he knew he’d never forget the way her thighs trembled and twitched against the side of his head as he suckled, licked, and pumped his three fingers into the very center of her being. His free hand was fanned out, palm down, on her abdomen in an attempt to anchor her to the bed. 

She came apart, one hand covering her mouth, while the other grasped at Jim’s hair. She was afraid she’d break his nose, from the almost violent rocking of her hips. Before she had time to recover, she was scooped up in his arms, pinned against the wall furthest from the door, as he entered her with ease, despite his more-than-overwhelming size. She gasped without a sound, her eyes wide and fixed on his, as he hiked her legs further up his sides and began to thrust her against the wall, gentle and measured. His gaze was intense, almost stern. She kissed him in an attempt to break his solemn expression, squeezing her walls against his cock. He groaned against her mouth, and picked up his pace, driving deep into her as she nipped at his jaw, and his earlobe, whispering encouragement. 

They ended up on the floor, shortly after Joyce’s second orgasm of the night, with her riding him with vigor and purpose. He had one hand on a breast, gently pinching her aching nipple. His other hand was between her lips, teasing at her desire-slick clit. He loved her, this he had known for a long time now, but this development was as new as it was bizarre. He wasn’t going to tempt fate by announcing his feelings while they were rutting like teenagers, though he was certain she could hear it in his voice as he came with her name on his lips, flipping her onto her back moments before so that he could savor the soft look in her large, brown eyes as she stared up at him. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Jim uttered in a spent staccato as he continued to empty himself within her. He hadn’t exhibited a single ounce of self control, filling her full of cum, like they were an established couple with an endgame in mind.

“It’s okay,” Joyce announced when he rolled away from her, onto his back. “I’m on the pill,” she informed, confidently, not knowing that a few days later, she would notice that her pack had pills that predated the Magnet Situation. 

“Mmm,” Jim grumbled, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he willed his breathing to regulate. 

Joyce rolled onto her side, and snuggled against Jim’s chest. He looped one arm around her, and pulled her close, kissing her very sweaty forehead. 

“God damn,” he uttered, before turning his head to face her; fondly pushing wet strands of hair away from her face before kissing the tip of her nose. “I don’t know why it happened, but--”

“It happened because I wanted it to happen,” Joyce replied. “Because I desired you, and I wanted to have one moment where we weren’t worry about the kids, screaming at each other, or both.”

Jim chuckled. “As I recall, you were doing a fair bit of screaming.” He laughed aloud when Joyce punched him in the shoulder. “Can we do it again?”

Joyce shook her head. “Not tonight.”

Jim held onto her words. Not tonight. That didn’t mean never, ever. Not tonight had a distinct possibility of becoming an ‘If we survive this mess’.

She had no objections to him holding her after they found their way back to the bed and settled in. He would have to be careful to return to the living room before everyone else rose in the morning, but at the moment, his only concern was the lightly snoring woman in his arms. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


__________

**October 1st, 1985**

“How long until we get to Chicago?” El asked mournfully, her eyes fixed on the seemingly endless expanse of flat farmland passing by through her window.

“Soon, baby. Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Even as Joyce inquired, she felt the familiar sourness deep in her gut begin to rise up her chest. Her head swam unpleasantly, and she inhaled through her nose, releasing the air in a slow exhale through her mouth. 

“Are you okay, Joyce? There’s a gas station up ahead, let’s pull over.”

Joyce was not in the mood to protest. She barely had time to get the bathroom key from the cashier, run out to the restrooms, open the door, and fall to her knees before expelling the meager contents of her stomach into the grimy toilet bowl - nor did she notice El and the boys following close at her heels the entire way. Jonathan and Will hovered fearfully near the entrance to the restroom, whilst El knelt at Joyce’s side, and pushed back the few wild tendrils of hair that were in danger of splashback. 

“Don’t die,” El pleaded, her voice quivering with fear. She had watched enough soap operas to know that vomiting meant death, and if it didn’t mean death, it surely meant…

“I’m not going to die,” Joyce replied with a watery chuckle. She spat out the last remnants of her nausea and stood, with El’s help. Jonathan crossed the barrier and retrieved several paper towels before dampening them in the sink and pressing them against Joyce’s forehead as she washed out her mouth, and scrubbed at her hands. 

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Will announced, wanting to be helpful. 

“Go with your brother, Jonathan. Will doesn’t have any money,” Joyce instructed, taking the paper towels from her son so she could wipe her face and neck. 

“Are you going to be okay?” 

Joyce snorted. “Oh sure. Get some money from my purse and grab some snacks for everyone. Just Corn Nuts for me, though - BQ.” She turned to El once the two of them were alone, thumbing away the tears on the young girl’s cheek, before kissing her on the forehead.

“I’m not going to die, okay? This is just what happens when you try to use up the last of the food in the fridge.”

El wrinkled her nose. “We all ate those eggs, and only you got sick. I read an article about food poisoning.”

Joyce shrugged. “I’m fine honey.”

“Is it a baby?”

Joyce felt her stomach drop, and her heart rate picked up to a dizzying pace. She had suspected she was pregnant for a few weeks now, but had kept absolutely mum about said suspicions. To hear it aloud made her feel like the floor was disappearing beneath her, like she was falling into a pool of icy water. 

“Sweetie, that’s just not-”

“Is it Hop’s?”

“El, there is no baby.” She tried to sound firm and final, but lying had never been Joyce’s strong suit. She had always left bluffing up to…

“Excuse me.” 

Joyce was hit with a sudden and crushing wave of grief that she had not allowed herself to feel since the night Hopper died - since the night she killed him. She fled the restroom, running blindly towards the small, wooded picnic area adjacent to the property. She ran past the tables and stopped beneath the shade of two pines, where she was temporarily obscured from prying eyes. A mighty sob tore through her chest and stole her ability to breath as she doubled over with killing despair and wept. 

“Mom? Mom!” She felt being pulled into Jonathan’s arms, where she continued to cry openly against his chest, undoubtedly coating him with tears and snot that threatened to drown her. Will and El followed close behind, and followed Jonathan’s suit, enveloping her in care and warmth, protecting her from the early evening chill, as they stood united beneath a setting sun in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois. 

________________

**Kamchatka, Russia**

_ I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves… _

_ I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves… _

_ I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves... _

_ And this is how it goes… _

Jim took a billy club to the ribs before he could get to the next verse, which was a repeat of the previous, which he had already gone over about six times before he received real consequences. The pain was intense, all consuming, and immediately made him bring up a wave of bile that landed on the concrete floor at his feet. Yet he refused to take a tin plate of mush that was being pushed into his hands. 

“Eat!” The young, ruddy-faced guard commanded, his adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed hard. The poor kid had been tasked with overseeing Jim’s meal time ever since he started refusing food and drink. Now, after three days, he wasn’t entirely sure why he was pulling a hunger strike, though he had a faint recollection about it having something to do with his yard privileges being taken away after witnessing another guard - a great brute of a man named Illya - beating a prisoner who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. 

It was interesting to note that his captors seemed very invested in keeping him at least somewhat nourished, and unharmed. They cared enough that they sent a lackey to watch him eat and drink. Cared enough to send their spindly finger doctor to take his vitals every few days. 

Jim supposed it had something to do with the fact that he had been wandering around the Upside Down for what seemed like weeks before he found the gate that led him straight into a laboratory - nearly identical to the one beneath Starcourt - and straight into the arms of the enemy. From then on, there had been an exhaustive series of tests - poking and prodding in a sterile, white little hospital room - before he’d been transported to his current situation. Now, there were still tests, but they were less frequent. 

Something about him was special and astonishing, but he didn’t speak Russian, so he had no idea what it was. But he was important, and they wanted to keep him alive. 

“Hard… to… stay hungry when I’ve been whacked in the gut, Boris,” Jim replied as he tried to regain the wind that had been knocked from him. 

“Eat… or maybe you vant…” the boy trailed off and frowned as he stumbled over his English. Jim didn’t mock him, too overcome with relief that someone was making an attempt to communicate. 

“Chicken? Burgers?” Jim suggested, hope blossoming in his chest.

“Tubes. Eat tubes.” The boy mimed a tube going into his mouth - he pinched at his throat and grimaced, shaking his head. “No good. Uncomfortable.”

Jim’s eyes widened, and he suddenly felt a little more agreeable, as his hunger-weakened mind conjured up his Sara, languishing, and hooked up to tubes and machines. He shook his head and gave a weak chuckle.

“No, no tubes.” He took the plate. “I’ll eat the old-fashioned way, Boris.”

The boy replied with what sounded like Theodore, but with an F.

“Foe-dor?”

“Nyet. Fyodor.  _ Fee-yo-door.  _ My name. Like author.”

Jim nodded. “Jim. My name is Jim. Like the song.”

Fyodor frowned. “Gets on nerves song?”

“Nah. Jim Croce.”

“Cro… chet?”

Jim shrugged with a good-natured sigh. It wasn’t the best conversation he’d ever had, but it was working on his morale like a tonic. Maybe he shouldn’t be getting so chummy, or given up his actual name, but chances were they knew all there was to know about him anyway. There were more painful ways to drag information out of someone, and he had no delusions about ever escaping this place. 

“Yeah. That’s the singer.”

Fyodor’s bright brown eyes widened, and then narrowed. “Vait… is song or singer?”

“Both. Jim is a singer, singing a song about Jim.”

Fyodor puffed out his cheeks and exhaled before nodding gravely, though Jim had the feeling that the statement had gone over the kid’s head entirely. “Okay. Hi Jim. You eat?”

Jim picked up his fork and dug in with a grimace. 

“Yeah, kid. I eat.”

“Good.”

Jim chewed a mouthful of slop, and his hardest to imagine it was Joyce's Christmas ham and pecan stuffing instead. He smiled fondly at the memory, his eyes watering. He couldn't conjure the taste, but he could see her sweet, expectant face as she waited for judgment on his first few bites, clear as day.

“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” It was his best Bogart.

“Fyodor. Jim, you have cold?”

_________________

**December 24, 1985**

“Is it moving? It feels like my nose is bleeding.” 

Will sighed and flicked at the motionless can Diet Coke on the formica countertop. 

“No, and your nose isn't bleeding, it's running. You have a cold. We all have colds.”

El groaned and swept the can to the floor with the back of her hand. Will scurried to retrieve it, shushing her as he did so.

“Mom isn't feeling well. You'll wake her up.”

It was Christmas Eve, but between Joyce's increasingly difficult pregnancy, and the flu bug whipping through the cozy, modest Craftsman bungalow, there was scant evidence of holiday cheer, apart from a few yuletide decorations and a patchy Douglas Fir in the living room. El had experienced very few Christmases, but she knew with certainty, that this one was the worst.

She couldn't even crush a can, let alone move it a lousy inch. 

“Why is this so important now, after all this time?” Will asked. 

“I had a dream about Hop.” 

Will shrugged and shook his head. “Okay? I think we've all had dreams about the Chief. We miss him - especially you and Mom --”

“My nose was bleeding when I woke up.”

“It's Winter. Mom just bought a humidifier because-”

“No. He was in a prison and everyone was talking funny… like the people Papa used to make me listen to. He had a beard and he was so skinny, and hurt. It was different.”

Will thought about all of the times people had laughed in his mother's face when she had allowed herself to be vulnerable enough to share her suspicions and fears. It gave him pause, preventing him from arguing any further.

“Well,” he decided, placing the can directly in front of El. “Let's keep trying.”

“Keep trying?” Joyce stepped into the kitchen, clad in sweatpants and an oversized Hawkins Police Department sweatshirt. Her long hair was piled on top of her head, and her visage was pale - her large, dark eyes tired weary, and red-rimmed. Jim’s old sweatshirt completely drowned her, and obscured the growing bump that seemed out of place on her otherwise slight frame. 

“You dreamt about him too,” El observed.

“Don’t…” Will warned, mindful of how fragile Joyce’s health had been as of late.

Joyce nodded. “How can you tell?”

“You’ve been crying.” El walked up to Joyce and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Don’t cry, Joyce.”

“Oh,” Joyce wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, while the other stroked the back of El’s head, fingers twining at the curled tips of her hair. “It’s nothing. What’s going on here?”

Will swiped the can of Coke from the table and lobbed it towards the recycling bin, where it bounced off the edge and came to rest on the linoleum. “Kid stuff,” he muttered as he hurried to retrieve the can from the floor.

“I saw Hop.”

“Oh, honey,” Joyce breathed, mournfully.

El pulled away and shook her head. “Not like a dream. I mean, I was sleeping, but I was in the dark, like before. He looked different… like something from that Cave Bear book.” 

Joyce opened her mouth to respond, but the phone began to ring. She scoffed and walked over to the wall near the refrigerator to pick it up, she had a feeling she knew who it was.

_ Joyce- _

“Murray, have you been talking to El?” Her tone was accusatory. Ordinarily, she would have let it go to voicemail, so tired of his relentless theories and rays of hope that she knew would come to nothing. El’s description of her dream brought to mind a brief conversation she had with him the other day, about a prisoner matching Jim’s description. It was impossible, she had seen him die. She had killed him. 

_ What? No, I don’t talk to kids. Listen, Joyce- _

“Well, you need to be careful what sort of information you leave on my voicemail, then, because -”

_ I am always careful, you know how- _

“ -she’s having nightmares about Hop in a prison-”

_ Dreams or is she projecting? Joyce you have to take this seriously - _

“I just want a normal life for my family, and you can’t give us hope like that, Murray!”

“Mom, what is he saying?” El asked, crossing the room in order to hear the other end. Joyce wrapped herself in the cord and wedged herself in the space between the fridge and the counter, turning her back on El. “Mom!”

_ Joyce, we are never going to have normal lives, but if this is true, you will have a father for that kid of yours. _

“Who told you I was pregnant?” Joyce hissed.

_ Jonathan; now -- _

“Mom is it about Hop?” El’s voice was becoming frantic.

“Mom, hang up the phone. He’s upsetting you.” Will moved across the room, with the intent to wrest the phone from Joyce, El blocked him with her body and a small skirmish erupted. 

_ Can you please call me from a phone booth? Some place quiet without your little ankle biters screaming in the background? _

“I don’t know, Murray, I--” Electricity crackled, and Joyce shrieked as the phone shorted out with a violent jolt, just as a banging noise made her jump with a gasp. She turned to see Will on the ground with his back against the sink, several feet away from El. He was looking up at his sister with wide, bewildered eyes. 

“I’m sorry!” El cried, covering her face with both hands. When she brought them down her eyes went large at the blood smearing her palms. 

“Oh my god…” Will breathed as he struggled to find his footing. 

Joyce gasped and immediately rushed to retrieve a paper towel. She dampened it in the sink, and then went to El, dabbing at the shocked girl’s nose. 

“Are you okay?” Joyce inquired, pulling El into her arms. The girl whimpered slightly.

“Tired. Like I used to feel when I used my powers in a big way.”

“One step at a time,” Will reassured her, stepping into Joyce and El’s embrace. 

“Or not at all,” Joyce chided, kissing El’s temple. “There’s no need for your powers anymore, sweetheart. We’re safe.” She pulled away in time to catch the look that El and Will shared.

“No. Need.” Joyce repeated, sternly. “I mean it.” She frowned at them both before yawning. “I’m going to take a nap. I’ll start dinner in a little bit; ham and pie, yum-yum.” She waddled towards her bedroom, one hand on her lower back, the other on her swollen tummy.

“Have to keep practicing,” El decided, softly, her eyes on Joyce’s retreating form. 

_____________________

  
  


**Kamchatka, Russia**

“Do you have a family, Fed?” Jim asked before showing his hand. Two Pair, Ace High. 

Fyodor wrinkled his nose, appearing younger than ever as he blushed, and shrugged. He showed his hand. Jack shit. 

“Mama. No time for much else. She sick, and not close here. I send money. I have also brother who is sailor. Anatole.”

“I like that name. Tony.”

Fyodor shook his head as he shuffled. “He is not… nickname type?”

“Stick up his ass. Got it. You’re the fun one.”

Fyodor stifled a laugh, before glancing over his shoulder. 

“What do they want with me, Fed? They poked, they prodded, and I’ve heard nothing for ages. What’s going on?”

Fyodor blanched, his hands stilling their motions, his eyes fixed on the cards. 

“I know nothing. I am no one.”

“But you listen,” Jim prodded.

“The journey should have killed you. It did not. Enigma.”

Jim coughed, and cleared his throat. His mind went to the screams he often heard down the hall, humanoid mixed with a familiar, unearthly shriek. 

“What happens when they get sick of not knowing? What happens when they find out?”

Fyodor stood suddenly, dropping the cards as he did so. “I stay too long. Keep cards. Is gift.”

“Christmas already?”

“New Year. Good night, Jim.” Fyodor started to leave, but paused. Jim saw him reach into his breast pocket. “Deck is missing one card.” Fyodor turned and held out his hand. Jim took the card with a trembling hand. It wasn’t a playable card, instead it was the type that had the manufacturer’s logo on the front of decks. This logo had the blue outline of an eagle clutching at a bit of ribbon. Someone had written on the ribbon in pen; Jim squinted so he could make out the message. The numbers were smudged, but what it appeared to be an address:

  1. Deming Place



Chicago, IL

“Fed!”

But he was already gone. Jim, suspecting, but not knowing for certain what he was looking at, held the card to his lips and kissed it before stashing it beneath his mattress along with the trimming shears Fyodor had given him the day prior. 

The lights in his cell block flickered and exploded that night, but he was fast asleep with hope swelling in his chest. He allowed himself to dream of Joyce, and El, and a little house thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

  
  
  
  


**January 3rd, 1986**

“Holy shit, you’re big as a house!” Murray Bauman declared, by way of greeting, when Joyce appeared at her front door. 

“Thanks.” Her eyes fell to the two enormous suitcases flanking either side of Murray. 

“I don’t pack light when I leave home.”

Joyce stood aside and allowed him to enter. He took in his surroundings with a neutral expression. 

“Nice place.”

“You can stay in the basement. There’s a pull-out couch, and it’s quiet.”

Murray nodded, headed into the living room and flopped onto an armchair with a heavy sigh. 

“I’m glad you’re ready to listen, Joyce. I truly think there’s a chance we can get him back.”

Joyce took a seat on the adjacent couch, rubbing her knees nervously. “Between your connections and El’s visions, I guess I have to allow myself to believe.” Her heart was hammering against her chest as she stroked her belly with one hand. The baby was getting more restless by the day. 

“I’m waiting on confirmation from my source. It’s the slow way, but since you’re putting the kibosh on your little Carrie using her powers-”

“Her name is El.”

“Okay,” Murray drawled. “Since you won’t let El help things along, it’s the best we’ve got. We should know within a week, and then we can start putting things in motion. We’ve got to be absolutely certain, or we can’t get Owens’s people on board. Might not be able to at all, considering how risky it is.”

“If he’s alive, I’ll pull him out of that prison myself.”

Murray hummed and shook his head. “I don’t think you’d be the best choice for a stealth mission. Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest, by the way?”

Joyce stretched out on the couch, placing her hands behind her head, and peering over her stomach at Murray. “Happy?” 

He wasn’t wrong. Joyce had begrudgingly allowed Sam Owens to assist with living expenses, something he claimed he owed her, after everything that had occurred. He had been furious when she turned down the settlement from Hawkins Lab two years prior, and then with what had happened to Jim, Sam had felt particularly culpable. That he had been too late, was a regret he voiced many times over the phone, and during a recent visit. 

“I’ll be sure to let Sam know you’re following his orders to the letter,” Murray replied with a shrug. 

“If there’s a rescue mission, I’d feel stupid sitting in the sidelines like a damsel.”

“You’re not a damsel. No one would ever say that. What you are is enormously pregnant, and if Jim is alive, you rappelling into Kamchatka looking like you swallowed a Belushi-”

“Easy. I get it. I’m a liability.” She winced at the ache in her lower back. 

Murray jumped to his feet and hurried over. “Aw, shit. It’s not the baby is it? Did your water break?”

Joyce shook her head. “Of course not.” She scooted until her back was against an obliging pile of pillows. She took in the stricken expression on his face.

“You didn’t just come here to discuss a rescue mission. You’re worried.”

Murray frowned and shook his head. “No!”

“You’re worried about me, the kids, and this baby.”

He snorted.

“Aw, Grumpy, you do care.”

“Be quiet and lean forward so I can fluff your pillows.”

El, Jonathan, and Will watched the scene unfold from their perch on the stairs. 

“It’s only been a few weeks, do you think you can do it?” Jonathan asked, reaching down to ruffle El’s hair. She looked up at him with a grave expression.

“I’m going to try.”

Will made a worried nose. “It's a big effort. More than you've done since… well, what if it drains you again? Murray said they'd know soon if-”

“Not soon enough. They need to move. I think he's sick. He was coughing in my last dream, and he was too skinny. He needs to know that we are still looking for him.”

“You think you can do it though?” Will asked. “I mean… do you think you can make sure he knows you’re listening in?”

El nodded, her lips pressed into a thin, anxious line. Her eyes were wide and unsure. 

The three of them jumped back in their seats when Murray appeared at the foot of the stairs, grinning in amusement. “I can hear you nosy little mouthbreathers clear from the living room,” he whispered. “Your mom just fell asleep, so I’ll say this now; if Jim got the message I sent along, he knows we’re looking. A bigger nudge wouldn’t hurt, though.”

“What makes you think it’s really him?” Jonathan asked. 

“I know people, kid. That’s all you really need to know. I don’t hide out in that shithole in the woods for my health, you know. I’m putting myself at risk even being here. I can’t even go out and get a decent Polish in case I get shot on sight.”

“Polish?” El asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Hot dog,” Will whispered.

“Yeah,” Murray scoffed. “So why don’t one of you make yourself useful and head out to Luke’s for me? I’m going to take a nap downstairs, wake me up when you get back with food, or the light show begins, whichever comes first.”

“You’re the mouthbreather,” El replied before standing and heading to her room. 

“You want fries?” Jonathan asked.

“Are you buying?”

“I guess.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

_______________

Joyce was jerked into consciousness when a supernova of light exploded behind her eyelids. She was temporarily blinded when her eyes flew open, and she fell from the couch as she threw a protective arm over her face. 

“What the fuck?” The lights dimmed to a reasonable level of brilliance (but were flickering violently) as she pulled herself to her feet. It was dark outside, and there was no one in her sight. “El? Boys?”

“Stay downstairs, Joyce!” Murray cried as he pounded down the stairs, Will and Jonathan behind him. 

“What’s going on? Where’s El?” Joyce pushed past Jonathan and ran up the stairs. Light burst from the thin space bordering El’s bedroom door “What have you done?” She shrieked at Murray as he caught her by the elbow - she jerked away from him.

“Joyce, something is happening with the kid, and I’m sorry, but no one else can --” Joyce shoved against Murray’s chest and pushed into the room. 

Light enveloped her and then nothingness.

_____

**Kamchatka, Russia**

**Same Night**

Jim was not a light sleeper under the best of circumstances, and he lamented the fact that the lights in his cell were constantly burning. This night, he had somehow managed to slip into an almost comfortable unconsciousness, probably owing to the chamomile tea Fyodor had secreted away for him. 

Before receiving Joyce’s address, Jim had begrudgingly started to consider Fyodor a friend - now he was beginning to realize that he had an ally, whose loyalty went beyond human decency and sympathy for his plight. Hope was beginning to blossom, even though it had been days since he had received the note, and the young guard hadn’t mentioned anything since. The anticipation of further news had not helped him in his search for rest.

Then the lights exploded and shattered.

“Fuck!” Jim groaned as his entire cell was enveloped in blackness. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Language,” a soft voice emerged from the dark. Jim, reverting to childhood, threw his blankets over his head, gripping tightly at the edges. It was no longer pitch black outside of his thin covering. Something soft and golden had emerged from the gloom. He pushed the covers away slowly, and sat.

“Kid?”

El appeared before him, wavy and blurred, as though a gold wall of water stood between them. Her eyes widened as a slow, tremulous grin crept over her features. Her hair was longer, and she was at least two inches taller. His heart ached as he looked her over.

“Go away!” She shrieked suddenly, electricity crackling. Her form blinked out, and then reappeared.

“What?”

“Don’t come in here!” He realized that she wasn’t speaking to him, when he noticed that her head was turned, the command thrown over her shoulder, as she flickered in and out. 

“El, can you see me?”

“Yes.” Her attention was on him once more. She stopped flickering in and out, and he thought he could hear voices behind her.

“How is this possible? You can’t… you can’t do this, right?”

“I’m doing it. Dad, are you okay?”

His chest felt like it was going to explode when she called him ‘Dad’.

“It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, kid. Are you okay?”

El nodded, her eyes shining with tears. “Yeah.” Her voice was thick with emotion. Jim felt tears prick and sting at his eyes. 

“Joyce… she took you? Is she okay?”

“Yes, Joyce is fine. Murray said someone gave you our address, did you get it?”

“Yeah, yeah someone did. Kid, is this safe? Do you have the battery for this?”

El gave another nod.

“Listen, Dad, we are coming for you. Please just hold --”

El was cut off as a hand appeared on her shoulder. The hand belonged to Joyce, a fact that became apparent as she stepped into view. El turned and looked up, both their figures flickering violently before blinking out entirely, leaving Jim alone.

“Joyce!” Jim screamed. He was alone in the darkness once more. He began to hyperventilate as he repeated both of their names, tears flowing down his cheeks. Joyce had been there - alive, healthy, and… round.

Jim gasped as he processed this information. The curve of Joyce’s belly had been unmistakable. He frantically began to do math in his head, pulling from his recollection of Diane’s pregnancy. The two women had been vastly different in physique but still… 

Joyce was having his baby. He knew they’d been careless that night, and even though she had said she was on birth control, he knew from experience that that alone wasn’t a wholly effective safeguard. Still…

“Come back,” he whispered hopelessly, beforing falling back against his pillow. He buried his face in his hands and tried unsuccessfully to stifle the sob that ripped through his chest.

“Jim?” 

The heavy door scraped noisily against the cement floor as Fyodor pushed into the room. The young man barely had time to close it behind him before Jim - still possessing some of his brute strength minus thirty pounds of muscle and fat - had him shoved against the door with a pair of trimming shears cold against his young throat. 

“Who are you working for?”

Fyodor gulped, and made a tremulous shushing noise as he trembled in Jim’s grasp.

“P-please. Put d-down - I’m a friend, please.”

Jim’s eyes widened as he took in the frightened boy’s colorless face. He relaxed his grip, and when Fyodor collapsed to the floor, Jim realized that he had been holding the poor kid off the ground. 

“Sorry, Fed… I’m sorry.”

Fyodor pulled himself to his feet. “Lucky vas just me.”

Jim sat on the edge of his bed. “Lucky.”

Fyodor cautiously sat on the other side of the bed, his lanky frame leaning away from Jim’s, even as his face maintained it’s usual, friendly openness. Jim handed the shears to Fyodor, but the boy shook his head.

“You have friends. I am one of them, Jim. Soon, I vill have instructions for you,” Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Fyodor held up a silencing hand. “Days, soon. Keep shears under bed. Keep head down. Don’t try to kill another guard, hey? Some of them not as nice as me.”

They both shared a laugh, Jim through his tears. “I’m going to be a father. I don’t know how to explain how I know, but I am.”

“Then you stay strong.” Fyodor stood. “Keep shears, yes?”

Jim nodded, and allowed Fyodor to clap him on the shoulder. The boy suddenly looked grave.

“What is it, Fed?”

Fyodor sighed. “The vay out is dangerous. You know how to…” he looked around. “Hurt yourself safely?”

Jim frowned. “Huh?”

“Ve have hospital off-site for guards and valuable prisoners. They have found nothing special about you, but you are American so you are still valuable.”

“I don’t follow.”

Fyodor shook his head and cleared his throat. “Days, Jim. Be ready.”

___________________________

  
  


**January 4th, 1986**

**Chicago, Illinois**

  
  


“What if she doesn’t wake up?” Joyce fretted. She was situated at El’s bedside, the recliner moved upstairs in order to make her vigil more comfortable. El had fallen unconscious, wan and nose bloodied, after Joyce inadvertently broke the connection. Joyce had been found on the floor, also unconscious, when Murray, Jonathan and Will managed to get into the bedroom. She woke several hours later to Sam Owens fretting over them both. 

“She’s sleeping, Joyce. Nothing more,” Sam assured as he checked the girl’s vitals. “The effort she had to put into that little stunt was taxing, bless her for it.”

“Now you know it’s Jim? The prisoner? Murray said his people weren’t sure.”

Sam nodded with a sad little smile. “Yes, it’s Jim.”

Joyce pressed her mouth into a thin line as tears slipped down her cheeks. She exhaled in a soft whimper and nodded. “Will you--”

“He’s going to come home, Joyce.” Sam looked her over. “You need to rest, you need to eat, you need to at least make an effort to follow my orders. He’s coming home, so please make sure you and that baby are around when he does.”

“Okay,” Joyce replied, her voice brittle with emotion. 

“I’m going home, but please call me when something changes. Please.” Same knelt in front of her. 

“It’s going to be okay.”

Joyce let out a sob, and didn’t resist when Sam leaned forward to embrace her. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept as he rocked her in his arms. 

________________

**Kamchatka, Russia**

_ Do not ask me love to linger _

_ When you know not what to say _

_ For duty calls your sweetheart's name again _

_ And your heart need not be sighing _

_ If I be among the dying _

_ I'll be with you when the roses bloom again... _

Jim felt cautiously chipper as he sang a melancholy tune, and trimmed his beard. Tonight was the night, and then plan was minutes away from taking hold. All he had to do was wait for Fyodor’s knock, and pull the cord. 

He took in his hollow cheeks, his nearly emaciated frame, and did not recognize himself. He was wild, and bedraggled despite his feeble attempts at grooming. He put himself in mind of an old illustration in a book of fairy tales his mother used to read him. Rip Van Winkle, the man who fell asleep. He wondered if Joyce would still have him, in this state.

Ah, Joyce. He conjured up the ghostly image of her from El’s visit; the gentle swell of her tummy, her long, wavy hair. So much of his hope had been long dead, until he glimpsed at his girls… and now there was a baby on the way.

**_Tap taptap tap._ **

It was time. Jim lowered the shears to his left wrist, the tip pressing against the start of a long, black line that ran a little bit past the middle of his forearm. A road map. 

_ There's a far and distant river _

_ Where the roses are in bloom _

_ A sweetheart who is waiting there for me _

_ And it's there I pray you take me _

_ I've been faithful, don't forsake me _

_ I'll be with her when the roses bloom again… _

________________________________

**February 7th, 1986**

**Chicago, Illinois**

The pain had started right around midnight. The severity of it, hot and lancing through her lower back, would have woken Joyce, but she hadn’t been able to sleep since two days prior - when Sam approached her with the news that the rescue operation was about to begin. He had been cagey when she asked him the details, and then firm when she insisted he tell her. She knew that meant it was risky, that he was protecting her from the details because he, like everyone else, thought she was fragile. 

To be fair, she was confined in her movements, almost entirely restricted to her bed, due to spotting that had begun shortly after the incident in El’s bedroom. Stress from what she had seen, and how it had endangered El was more than likely the culprit. No matter what the cause, she was at the mercy of her children, Murray, Sam, and obstetrics staff at Northwestern.

Joyce whimpered as she attempted to ease the discomfort, but propping her back against the pillows. Muscle aches from confinement, she mentally willed. The pain began to subside, causing her to smile as she pulled the cord on her bedside lamp and picked up her paperback novel. 

The next stab of pain was low in her belly, and sharp enough to make her cry out, despite her best efforts. Jonathan and Nancy (who had been visiting for the weekend) rushed into the room not three seconds after, followed closely by Will and El. 

“It’s nothing,” she hissed, lurching forward, with her arms wrapped protectively around her midsection. Tears stung her eyes, as she breathed through her nose, and exhaled through her mouth. 

“I’m going to go warm up the car, you three help her downstairs.” Jonathan turned and rushed out of the door. 

“Easy, Joyce. Put your arm over my shoulder,” Nancy instructed softly. Will flanked the other side of Joyce as they headed down the hallway to the stairs. El followed behind, toting Joyce’s overnight bag, which had been packed during a fit of nesting. 

“It’s early,” El announced once Will and Nancy had Joyce situated in the back seat of Jonathan’s car. Nancy shushed her as she rounded to the passenger side. 

El and Will sat in the back with Joyce, both stricken and white-faced as they observed their mother, who was concentrating on her breathing. She wasn’t in pain, but her stress levels were through the roof. 

They arrived quickly, the morning hour early enough that they weren’t hindered by heavy traffic. Joyce was transferred to a wheelchair and then to a hospital room. They hadn’t been able to reach her doctor, but Sam had been alerted early enough to make the necessary arrangements. Joyce had her own room, comfortable and decorated with soft pastels. Decidedly not an emergency room cot with curtained walls. Eventually, Joyce’s doctor was able to come to the room, and make an assessment. She was going to be kept for monitoring. It was possible that the baby was on the way, and it was extremely unlikely that she would be sent home before that occurred. Joyce sent the kids home, with promises that they would be the first to know, should anything change.

“I had Braxton Hicks with both boys, and Will was premature. My old doctor sent me home when--”

“I am not your old doctor, and Owens was equally insistent that you stay.” Dr. Reyes gave Joyce a tight, sympathetic smile.

Joyce wrinkled her nose and sighed. Then, her eyes widened. “I thought Sam was on vacation - when did he get back?”

Dr. Reyes gave a thoughtful hum as she looked over Joyce’s charts. “Last night. He came straight to the hospital. I guess one of his vacation buddies had to be brought in--”

“Sam!” Joyce shouted. Dr. Reyes shushed her, a bewildered look on her face. 

“Joyce, you need to calm down, it’s not good for the baby.”

“I need you to bring Sam here right now!”

Dr. Reyes sighed, and unhooked her walkie.

“Paging Dr. Owens. The patient in 1306 wants to see you.” There was a pause, a click, some static, and then a voice:

_ You told her about 1009… _

“I guess?”

_ Joyce, I -...  _ There was an alarmed cry from behind Sam, and then a click.

Joyce recognized that cry. Her jaw dropped as the blood in her veins ran cold. She pulled herself into a sitting position and started to turn. Dr. Reyes was upon her in an instance, guiding her back against the pillows. Joyce slapped at the woman’s shoulders.

“No, you have to let me go! I need to go!”

“I need assistance in 1306,” Reyes commanded into the walkie. She held it in one hand, while the other attempted to pin Joyce back against the bed. 

_ Joyce, get back into bed! 1009 and I are coming to you! _

Joyce immediately relaxed at Sam’s assurance. She settled against the pillows and willed her breath to regulate. She was trembling, as she stammered out an apology to Reyes. 

“I’m not the enemy, Joyce. Please remember that the next time you try to take a swing at me,” Reyes scolded, before leaving the room without a goodbye. Joyce felt a pang of guilt that almost eclipsed her anticipation.

Sam entered the room, unaccompanied. 

“Where’s--” Sam held up a hand, silencing her.

“I think it’s too early, and too risky for this. Both for you and him - but he nearly took my block off when I explained. He’s malnourished, and he’s injured. I want you to know all of this before he comes in to see you.”

Joyce nodded slowly, blinking away tears as she did. 

“Please just let him in,” she pleaded. 

Sam cleared his throat and turned to softly address someone outside of the room. She heard a murmured warning, and not much else before Sam left and someone else entered.

Jim Hopper shuffled into the room, clad in a hospital gown and robe, and pulling his IV cart along with him. Both robe and gown hung off of him, both overly large and too short for his slightly emaciated frame. His beard was scraggly and long, as was his hair, and his cheeks were hollow. His eyes were bright and sparkling with tears in his pale, sun-starved face. There was a bandage on his left wrist, and the sight of it made Joyce’s gut twist and sour.

“Joyce.”

She held out her arms without hesitation, and he was at her side with a speed that belied his frail appearance, his head buried against her chest as his hand - the one unencumbered by tubes - covered her swollen belly. Joyce kissed the top of his head, brushing matted strands of hair from his forehead. 

“Hey, Hop,” she whispered before her tears overwhelmed her, as well as him. They both shuddered against one another, Hopper holding onto her so tight that her biceps ached. 

“Hey, Joyce,” his voice cracked. “How’re you holding up?”

Joyce cupped his cheek and pulled his face to hers, before brushing her lips against his. The saltiness of their respective tears clung to Joyce’s lips as Jim deepened the kiss. When Joyce began to become breathless, she pushed against his chest.

“Easy. That’s how you get a girl pregnant,” she teased. Jim gave a watery laugh before pressing a long kiss against her forehead. 

“So not funny,” he murmured, tracing her lower lip with his forefinger. She kissed the tip of his finger and gave him a soft smile.

“So… Enzo’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Seven?”

Jim nodded.

“Friday?”

He chuckled. “An eventual Friday.”

“It’s an eventual date.”

**The End**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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